


Riposte

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Sufficient Skill: Elorin Mahariel x Zevran Arainai [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Antivan Crows, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, M/M, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elorin Mahariel finds Zevran utterly charming, but can't seem to figure out how to communicate what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riposte

Elorin sits in front of his tent, waxing the string of his bow.  He grins a little, looking at it.  The bow is revolting in some ways, with its spikes jutting forth in all directions, the leather of an unknown creature ( _please be a bronto_ , he has thought more than once,  _not a person_ ) wrapping around the grip; it had taken some time and a lot of lavender and elfroot essence before he could get the smell of darkspawn taint off of it.  But Spear-Thrower is the finest bow he’s seen on his journeys, and it gives him a bit of pleasure to know that a darkspawn’s weapon is so effective at taking them down.

It’s the end of a long day, and the fire flickers.  He glances up.  Sten and Alistair are on first watch, guarding the borders of their little camp.  He’s grown fond of both of them for utterly different reasons.  Alistair makes him laugh; Sten makes him want to straighten up and prove himself.  

Zevran is seated on the log across the way, setting out bundles of herbs and tiny earthen pots from his pack.  Elorin raises his eyebrows.  He’s been intrigued by Zevran’s knowledge of poisons, having only dabbled in them himself, and before he can let himself get nervous he sets down his bow and goes to sit down beside the other elf.

“To what do I owe your interest tonight?” Zevran asks playfully, giving Elorin a knowing glance.  Elorin’s stomach swoops, and he tries to ignore the feeling.  _Swooping is bad, remember?_  he thinks, and the silliness of the idea emboldens him.

“I just wanted to see what you were working on.  I’ve always found poisons fascinating,” says Elorin.  "Obviously I never used them to hunt food, back with my clan, but there were a few we used to use if we knew shemlen were looking for us.“

Zevran clucks his tongue in disappointment.  “Ah, you have come to discuss business only, no pleasure?  Very well.”

“I didn’t say that –” Elorin begins, flustered.   “I mean, I like learning new things.  I’m a quick study.  And poisons seem helpful.”

“Helpful, that is a curious way to describe them!  I would say  _essential_  in an assassin’s line of work.  You simply need to have the right ingredients,” says Zevran, gesturing to the herbs laid out on a clean cloth.  “Most poisons will contain deathroot, yes – it is named that for good reason – but you can get quite fascinating effects from unexpected additions.”  He launches into a long list, lighting up as he does so.  

Elorin tries to pay attention, but it isn’t easy when Zevran flashes him a wide smile, or when he tilts his head just slightly in Elorin’s direction.  He can see the other man enjoys sharing his knowledge, and he likes the way Zevran grins, telling him about the difference between powdered deathroot versus the extract; one will kill, the other paralyze.  

Elorin tries to ignore that jittery feeling he gets when Zevran’s hand brushes against his own, pointing to a flask of a concentrating agent.  Zevran has made no secret of flirting with him, has even patiently explained that there is nothing strange about two men together, but despite that, Elorin is still not certain the other elf really  _means_  it.  Maybe it is merely a conversational habit, something common to Antivans.  He’s not sure which he would like it to be.

Because if Zevran really means it, then it means that Elorin’s nervousness hides something quite unexpected.

 

* * *

 

It’s early, the sun scarcely visible, the only clue to its presence a yellow blush against the horizon.  Elorín wakes too easily, his sleep having been disturbed by fragmented dreams and the sound of shouts that were not really there.  These Warden nightmares….  Alistair said they were worse during the Blight, and Elorin’s not certain of how they are normally, but they are bad enough.  He shakes away the visions of shrieks erupting among aravels, and he yawns, rolling out of his covers and fumbling for his boots and armor in the dark.

When he slips through the opening of his tent and makes his way down to the water’s edge for a quick bath, he’s startled to realize he’s not alone.  Zevran is kneeling down at the edge of the pond, splashing his face, his fair hair striking even in the dim pre-dawn light.

It’s not until Elorin gets a few steps closer that he realizes Zevran is completely naked.

He stops completely, his heart thumping suddenly in his chest so loudly he wonders that Zevran does not turn around.  His mouth goes dry.  He tries to tell himself it’s no different than bathing with the other hunters back home, but he’d run into this problem there, too, hadn’t he?  Trying to bathe alone so that he wouldn’t find himself growing  _interested_  at the sight of the others?  He had tried to tell himself it was simply that he was shy, but seeing the lean muscles of Zevran’s back, the round curve of his buttocks half-hidden by the heels he rests on – Elorin swallows, feeling a fierce and definite stirring in his smalls.

He hurries back to his tent before Zevran can see him, closing the flap behind him.  He takes a deep breath, trying to think of anything other than Zevran’s bare skin, the way his hair brushes against the nape of his neck, the tight cords of the muscles in his arms.  He bites his lip.  It isn’t working.  

Elorin tries to think of home, but that doesn’t help, either; he sees Tamlen’s wry grin, the hair always falling into his eyes, the way the tips of his ears twitched when he concentrated, the freckles on his arms.  Elorin sinks down to the floor, burying his face in his hands.  

He’d  _wanted_  Tamlen, wanted to be more than friends, and he’d never let himself admit it.  He had thought maybe he would never need to, after his friend was lost.  But then along came Zevran with his smile and his flirtations, and there he is, having to admit to himself what he had tried to hide so long.

He knows what the Keeper would have said, had he gone to her; it isn’t hard to imagine.  There would be that troubled line forming between her brows, that disappointed look on her face.  “ _Da’len, I know you care about Tamlen.  I want both of you to be happy.  But we all have to do what is best for the clan._ ”  She wouldn’t be angry, nor would the others; but nor would they approve of he and Tamlen like  _that_.  They would not accept a pair bond that gave no children; the Dalish were nothing without their children, nothing without their future.   _We are the last of the elvhenan._

Elorin sighs.  The thoughts of Zevran fade, mingled with a sense of loss and regret.   _Tamlen._   When he does emerge from his tent again, he’s quiet throughout the day, and even when Zevran teases him, he does not speak.

But that evening, when Zevran hands him a bowl of stew and sits next to him by the fire, Elorin does not mind when their knees touch, and when Zevran flirts with him again, he smiles back.

 

* * *

 

Elorin crouches at the chest’s lock, his fingers encouraging his pick this way and that.  The lock  _snicks_  open in his hands, and he allows himself a small smile.  Ah.  It’s always satisfying getting a particularly tricky lock, feeling it give way to his ministrations.  He hefts the lid of the chest open, grinning at its contents, a gleaming dagger of red steel and a small heavy bar of pure silver.  He lets out a whistle, wondering how much the silver might sell for.

A shadow passes over the chest as Elorin reaches in.  He glances up.  Zevran is peering over his shoulder, raising his eyebrow.  “Well done, my dear Warden.  You have such skill with your hands.  Have you ever considered putting them to use elsewhere?”

Elorin nearly jumps out of his skin as Zevran crouches down beside him, their arms rubbing together.  The feel of Zevran’s skin against his, even like this, is electric.  He gulps.  “Um, I – uh – usually just use them for lockpicking,” he finishes clumsily.  “And shooting arrows.  Daggers sometimes.  You know.  Stuff.”

“Ah, stuff,” Zevran muses.  “A delightful category.   _Stuff_  encompasses all manner of sins, I am sure.”  He gives Elorin one of those sideways looks – does he  _mean_  them to be so  _sultry_? – and Elorin hurriedly reaches out, grabbing the dagger’s hilt in one hand and the silver bar in the other.

“Good haul, at least,” he stammers.  “D’you want the dagger?  I like the ones I’m using now but this might suit you.”

“Yes, thank you, it has a fatally keen edge, does it not?”  Zevran reaches out, his fingers closing over Elorin’s briefly as he takes the dagger from him.  The other man’s touch is surprisingly soft, and Elorin’s breath quickens.  “But what do you plan to do with the silver, if I may ask?”

“Oh, this?  I was going to sell it.  I don’t know what else to do with it.  I’m not a smith,” says Elorin.  The bar shines in the torchlight, making its surface appear almost liquid.  It’s pretty, he supposes, but he prefers ironbark.

“I would pay you for it,” says Zevran casually.  “I have always admired such things.  Metals in their purest form; it is a bit of luxury that I have always found pleasing.  You do recall that I fancy pretty things, yes?”

Elorin looks at the silver bar, then at Zevran’s expectant face.  “You don’t need to pay for it,” says Elorin.  “I wasn’t going to do anything special with it.  You can have it, if you like.”  He reaches out for Zevran’s hand, holding it open with his free hand as he presses the bar into Zevran’s palm.  If he lingers too long with his hands against Zevran’s, Zevran does not complain.

“You are most generous, my friend,” says Zevran, and his lips curve in a smile that makes Elorin ache.

 

* * *

 

The Fade is strange and shifting, the world sliding sideways, ground beneath his feet nothing but dream-stuff and illusion.  Elorin staggers onward, first a mouse, now a golem, always searching, searching, trying to keep his goal in mind.   _We must escape!_   

He’s exhausted, but he knows to sleep is to admit defeat.  He’s fought how many demons now?  He does not know, but the dream-blood is sticky on his hands and armor.  He flings out his hand to the pedestal, willing it to take him to the blurred nightmare he sees far on the horizon.

He steps out of the shifting magic behind him, cautious and with an arrow nocked.  His footsteps are silent on the soft ground.  He rounds the corner of the little island, and hesitantly lowers his bow.

“Zevran?” he asks, his voice small in the gloom.

Zevran is stretched out on a table, and for a second Elorin thinks he’s merely reclining.  Then he sees the Crows standing beside him, one of them with his hand on a crank, and he realizes that the ropes lashed to Zevran’s wrists and ankles are not for any pleasurable purpose.  He’s never seen such a device, but he’s heard the name in gruesome tales of shemlen told round the fire.   _The rack._

“What are you doing to him?” Elorin asks sharply, but the Crows pay him no mind.  

“I think I saw him flinch,” one of them comments, gazing down at Zevran.  

“No, I… wouldn’t want you to hold back,” Zevran groans.  “I would be… disappointed… if you did.”

“Zevran!  Zevran, it’s me.”

Zevran lifts his head, grimacing.  Zevran’s arms and legs tremble with effort, the sweat shining on his face, the twist of his mouth.  

Elorin’s suddenly  _furious_ , a hot, sick rage welling up within him.  That Zevran is trapped here, being forced to relive this – that he had been forced to live it the  _first_  time! – it makes him livid, his hands itching for his daggers.

“What… what are you doing here?” Zevran asks faintly.  “You’re not supposed to be… here…”

“It’s a dream, Zevran,” Elorin says, hurrying to his side, shoving aside the Crow with his hand on the rack.  The Crow ignores him completely.  “We’re trapped in the Fade.  You need to wake up!”

“I can’t… I need to stay strong,” says Zevran, determination in every line on his face.  He strains against the ropes, pursing his lips, breathing hard through his nose.  “This is my test.  I am going to be a Crow…. I need to show them I can tolerate – pain.”  His voice cracks on the last word, just slightly, and Elorin’s nearly frantic.

“You’re already a Crow!  This isn’t real!”

Zevran opens his mouth, considers.  “What?  That cannot be, and yet… you speak the truth?  I can feel it.  Is this nothing but a bad dream?  A bad memory?”

“Yes, yes,” Elorin says.  “Come on, I’m going to get you out of here.”

“No, you won’t,” says the man next to him, and in an instant he’s a skeleton shambling and foul, cold steel in his hands, clawing at Elorin.  Elorin leaps back, drawing his daggers, and cuts Zevran’s ropes before sliding one dagger deep into the skeleton’s ribs.  He makes short work of the former Crows, his daggers flashing, and when it’s over, Zevran leans against the rack, staring down at it.

“Well, that was bracing!  Nothing like a good racking,” he jokes, but Elorin stares at him in disbelief.

“Zevran, are you all right?” he asks, but before he can reach out a hand to touch the other man, Zevran’s expression changes to one of shock.

“Hmmm?  What are you doing?” he asks, the air around him shimmering.  “Where are you going?”  

And Elorin’s hand closes on nothing but the air, and he stands on the island, alone again.

 

* * *

 

Elorin scowls at the dirt on his feet, digging his bare toes into a hollow in front of his tent.  His heavy boots stand by his tent, and it feels good to be back in light Dalish leathers again.  

He’s distracting himself, he knows that.  Trying both to screw up his courage and to  _not_  screw it up, because the idea of being successful is almost more alarming than failure.   When he can stand it no longer, he clears his throat and walks the few feet to where Zevran is warming his hands by the fire.  

“Zevran,” he starts.  “Would you… er, that is to say… would you mind walking the perimeter with me?  I wanted to talk to you.”

“Elorin, but of course,” says Zevran.  “A moonlit stroll with a handsome man… one could ask for no better end to an evening.”  He lowers his lids, giving Elorin  _that_  expression.  “Well, that is perhaps not entirely true.  Let us instead say one could ask for no better  _start_  to an end of an evening.”

“Yes.  Er.  About that.  Walk with me, will you?” Elorin says hastily, catching Alistair’s curious face out of the corner of his eye.  He and Zevran make their way to the edge of camp, where the shadows of the trees press close together, and the smell of pine and fern almost puts him in mind of home.  

“What is it you wish to discuss with me?” Zevran asks, falling into step beside Elorin.  The other elf looks completely calm; Elorin wonders if Zevran can tell how anxious he is.  “You have never lured me away from camp before.  Perhaps you wish to take me on an herb-collecting spree in the dead of night, but then again, you may have other things on your mind.”

“Insightful as always,” Elorin says, trying not to look at Zevran.  “There’s a few things, actually.  The first thing –”  He stops walking, and forces himself to look Zevran in the eye, much as it makes him even more anxious.  “The Fade.  Are you – all right, after that?”  He hesitates.  “You were being tortured.”

Zevran is still, his face half-shadowed by the moonlight.  “I am all right, yes.  What happened in that dream happened a long time ago.”

“You were really tortured, then?  Just to become a Crow?”  Elorin can’t keep the disbelief from his voice.  “I know you said that the weakest Crow apprentices didn’t make it, but… I hadn’t really thought about what that meant for  _you_.  It was difficult to see you like that.”

“Do you mind that much what must happen in the life of an assassin?” Zevran asks curiously.  “They are bad memories, that is true, and I did not enjoy revisiting them at the behest of an evil demon host.  I have attended much better parties.  But those memories of my initiation do not haunt me, if that is what you ask.”  Zevran seems to pause, for just a moment, as if there is something else he wants to say.  But in the next instant there’s a soft smile on his face.  “Your concern is quite touching.  I am surprised to hear you say that  _my_  nightmare brought you distress.”

Elorin runs a hand through his hair, then crosses his arms, trying to figure out what to say next.  He’s relieved that Zevran is all right, but then that brings him to the next thing he wanted to discuss, and that’s a much more nerve-wracking discussion.

“Well,” Elorin says, steeling himself.   _How would Zevran say this?_  he wonders, then goes for it before he can lose his nerve.  “I’d always imagined seeing you sweaty and groaning in a rather… different context.”

The pleased look in Zevran’s eyes tells him he’s got it right, he thinks.  “My, what is this, then?  You are full of surprises tonight.”

Elorin shifts his weight from one foot to the other.  “Er… I try.”  He lets out a huff of breath, and his next words come out in a rush.  “Would you like to go back to my tent with me?”  He inwardly winces.  Not exactly the most clever way to ask such a thing.

“Oh?  Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating?  That is my specialty, or so I’m told,” Zevran says slyly.

“I – um – no, I just wanted to… be with you.  In private.”  

Zevran’s grin is positively wicked.  “In private, you say?  Whatever would we need such privacy to talk about?  Tactics?  Poison recipes?  The Midsummer dance?”

Elorin is suddenly baffled.  “What?  No.  I thought – I mean, I thought you wanted to – that you didn’t mind that I’m –”

“That you are a what?  A Grey Warden?  A Dalish elf?  A talented archer?” Zevran asks.

“A man!” Elorin bursts out.  “ _Now_  you’re playing hard to get?   _Creators_ , this is  _not_  going how I imagined it!”  He scrubs his face with his hands, jangling with nerves.  Has he completely misinterpreted everything?

Zevran’s fingers slide up, up, over his wrists, curling around Elorin’s hands.  Gently he pulls them down, and Elorin lifts his gaze to see the other elf smiling at him, trying not to laugh.

“I apologize for teasing you,” says Zevran.  “But your cheeks become beautifully flushed when you are flirting.  You must forgive me for enjoying the view.”  He has not let go of Elorin’s hands yet; instead he pulls them forward, cradling them to his chest.

Elorin tries not to tremble.  He has never been this close to Zevran before, their faces mere inches apart, and the proximity of the other man… his smallclothes feel uncomfortably tight.  “So… you know what I’m trying to say.”

“I do, my Grey Warden,” Zevran chuckles.  “You are very earnest.  It is rather endearing.”

“…I think that’s good?” Elorin says.  “I – I haven’t really done this before, you know.  Any of this.”  The confession tumbles out of him, but he figures it’s better Zevran knows up front.  “If you don’t want to deal with an – an amateur, I understand.”

Zevran’s thumbs trace small circles on the back of Elorin’s hands.  He gazes into Elorin’s eyes, then lifts their joined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against Elorin’s hands.  His lips are warm, and Elorin gasps.  “If you desire it, I will show you anything you wish to learn,” he says, his voice low and thrumming.  “The choice is yours.”

“ _Yes_  already!” Elorin exclaims, and he closes the distance between them, slanting his mouth over Zevran’s, pulling his hands free so he can draw the other man closer.  Zevran is hot and real and solid in his arms, and his mouth –  _oh_ , his mouth is warm and slick and far too perfect.  Elorin follows the other man’s lead, his lips parting to allow Zevran’s tongue to slide along the edge of his bottom lip, and he’s moaning, unable to help himself.  

When Elorin pulls back, he’s panting, Zevran is flushed, and he can feel the other elf’s erection jutting hard against his leg.  “The tent,” he manages, before he presses another fierce kiss to Zevran’s lips.  

“You are a man after my own heart,” Zevran murmurs.  “Come.  …Well, we shall both do that before the night is through.  Multiple times, if I have my way.”

“You are  _terrible_ ,” Elorin hisses.  “You do know that, don’t you?”  He hurriedly makes sure his tunic covers the bulge in his smallclothes, and leads them back out of the trees to where the tents are pitched.  “You’re – you’re lucky I like that about you.”

“I am lucky indeed.  Now, lead the way.  I like the view.”

“ _Zevran_  –”

 

* * *

 

It’s not exactly like he imagines.

There’s so much  _more_  to it than he’d thought about, stroking himself in the dark in his tent.  He never imagined the way Zevran’s lips feel on the junction between jaw and throat, nor the way Zevran’s hands feel on the band of his smalls, tugging them down over his hips.  He’d imagined the way the other man’s mouth felt, but his imagination hadn’t done it justice.  He almost comes from the kissing alone, it is so frenzied, so charged.  

But when Zevran raises an eyebrow, and trails his tongue from Elorin’s chest all the way to the tip of his cock, he’s unable to do more than throw his head back, moaning at the way that mouth surrounds him.  He tangles his hands in Zevran’s sleek hair, his hips bucking with every swirl of his tongue, with every time the tip of his cock hits the back of Zevran’s throat.  The pleasure’s unbearable, and Zevran’s name is nothing more than a groan ripped again and again from his own mouth.  

It’s too much, especially when Zevran’s fingers, sure and firm, curl around the base of his shaft, adding a powerful pressure to the slick warmth of his mouth, the slide of his tongue, the feel of his lips.  Elorin cries out, his hands clenching in Zevran’s hair, and with an agonized thrust he’s spent, spurting into the other man’s mouth.  It’s glorious and raw and real and as his panting slows, he opens his eyes to see Zevran laying beside him, resting on one elbow, naked and still utterly appealing.  

“So, I believe I am to understand that you enjoyed yourself,” Zevran murmurs, pressing another kiss to Elorin’s neck.

“I – Creators –  _yes_ , Zevran, that was incredible,” Elorin sighs.  He’s languid now, softening and feeling deliciously lazy.  He closes his eyes for a moment, letting out a long breath, then props himself up so he can look better at the other man.  His eyes drift appreciatively to Zevran’s cock, hard and attentive.  “But I think it’s your turn.”

“Ah, you don’t say?” Zevran asks, but the end of his question is cut short by another kiss.  

“I do say,” Elorin says, pulling back.  “So.  You’ve already given me an _excellent_ lesson of what feels good.”  He slides his hand slowly down Zevran’s belly, then slips the other man’s cock into his hand.  He’s rewarded by Zevran’s small groan.  “But um… if you want to give me other pointers, then please do.  Remember, I… like learning new things.  And I like your teaching style.”  He laughs.

“Mmmmm….  I will never turn down a willing pupil,” Zevran says, closing his eyes at Elorin’s touch.  “Let us begin the first lesson, then – ahhh…”

 

* * *

 

Elorin yawns, slowly waking up.  It’s still dark outside, the dark of the early morning, and he relaxes, knowing he still has a little time to sleep.  For a moment he simply lays there beneath his blankets, drowsy and comfortable.  Then he realizes that Zevran’s arm is still draped over him, that Zevran’s warm against him, his skin smooth and supple.  

Elorin lets out a shaky, elated sigh.  Last night was real – not another dream.  He can’t keep the grin from his face, thinking of the different things Zevran had shown him – the incredible sensations, the pleasure.  He turns his head to look at Zevran, marveling at the memory of that face contorted in the rictus of orgasm.  That had been his favorite thing about the entire experience.  He stirs, thinking of how  _good_  Zevran looked, coming and saying  _his_  name –

Well.  He could certainly get used to this.

Elorin settles back into his blankets, the drowsiness taking him over, sleep calling him.  He snakes one hand up to twine his fingers between Zevran’s.  It’s a little thing, and Zevran isn’t even awake yet to feel it, but it feels right.  

He drifts back off to sleep, content, and for the first time in months, he does not worry about the nightmares. 

**Author's Note:**

> Zevran's flirts are really fun to write XD


End file.
